Who was going to help us? Stevie Ching didn’t exist in the ’70s, and neither did Annie Kratzer. Bones and I were on our own. 

I heard a rumble and glanced out the window. Yogi had pulled up in the ’52 Chevy outside the door and was waiting in it with G. “All right, let’s go, Bones,” I said, standing up, feeling as if I were Yogi’s age instead of a thirteen-year-old kid. 

I looked over at Bones. He was staring at me with that look he got when he was trying to figure out what I was thinking—or more like, what I was worrying about. Here he was, having to go to the doctor and be poked and prodded for what was probably the gazillionth time, and he was worried about me.

Yogi burst through the door, his giant frame filling the doorway, and said, “Time to go, boys! Get this over with and you can watch some TV after supper.” 

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